


Great Lengths

by blacksheepwoman



Category: Original Work
Genre: Community: poetry_fiction, Murder Mystery, Poetry, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksheepwoman/pseuds/blacksheepwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A detective is interrogating a suspect - what does he have to say for his crimes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Great Lengths

 The middle-aged decorated detective

            sat across from the suspect in question.

He had committed an atrocious murder, but never had any signs of aggression

            or trouble with the law or any odd quirks in the mind being defective.

The crime took place in a remote location

            and no evident ties to the victim or motive relation.

 

How he loved these quirky arse-holes with their bloody riddles.

            He sat back, viewing through the notes idly and fiddled

            with his pen, tapping it against the metal clip. 

He made a quick check of eyewitness’s statements, evidence, and gun on his hip.

 

“Mr. Rauch, you’ve been arrested for homicide, burning the body, and attempted arsenal.

           But there is some difficulty understanding your actions.

           This man had no ties to you and no known grudge or anything personal.

           Indeed, this is abnormal behavior of most known murderer’s habits.

I’ll admit, that’s hard to fathom.

            Do you expect me to believe that you chose this man completely at random?

The coroner has ruled the victim was still alive due to smoke –“

 

“Ah, yes, well,” Mr. Rauch interrupted, ”I had to think of another way when the knife broke

            off in his back.

Kudos to the grating bloke though, ‘cause even in a state of panic and pain –

           he damn well knew to make use of a surprise attack.

Even if he couldn’t do much of an assault, I wouldn’t say it was in vain.”

 

The detective watched the cheerfully, pleasant man saying words so thick and grim.

            Mr. Rauch was a demented man. “Yet why did you torture and murder him?”

 

“Well, sir – this planet has plenty in heaps of human stock

            and it was an awful writer’s block.”

 

The detective had stopped glancing through the notes of the debrief

            and stared at the man in disbelief.

“You mean to say, that you devised a butchery and eluding fabrication -

            all for a spark of inspiration?”

 

 

Mr. Rauch eyed the detective. “You honestly believe with such pain-staking narration

            that all is relied on imagination?

            Much research, exploration, and experimentation goes into this brilliance.

And, of course, some are better with visuals and others with hands-on experience.”

 

“Do you know there is an entire sub-culture

            that revolves around this genre of literature?

Many have a romanticism view of the works, or find it hypnotic, and worthwhile

            to not only read, but study and appreciate the gothic style.

What’s not to adore about the suffering soul or the villainous plotter in the miserable tale?

            All crafted in dark lines filled with morbid and ghastly detail?

I need to keep up with the deadlines and the printer’s race with the covers,

            so it was essential to be quick, but creative, along with the others…”

 

The detective’s neck snapped up and he studied the suspect:

            Mr. Rauch calmly sitting in a pristine suit.

            Sleek hair and a loose tie, reminding him of a suave gentleman, one to expect

            in charming them all, for everyone to hang on as the noose is slipped by the brute.

 

“Others?” the detective rasped.

            He knew the implication, but oh, denial wanted to omit any meaning grasped.

            He tried to fight the looming dread that would spread before it took stead.

 

The suspect raised his eyes and cocked his head.

            “I’m a writer: with the short stories, poems, and novels I’ve done -

            Do you really think that all the stimulation would be sufficed by just one?”


End file.
